In my blog posts, I do my best to destroy the myth of the single narrative usually painted of African Americans in the 19th century, i.e., destitute, formerly enslaved, and/or dependent on the largesse of well-meaning Whites. Eliza Potter with her book, A Hairdresser’s Experience in High Life, does the same only to depictions of aspirational black women who sought only to uplift the race. Eliza bettered her personal situation first and then used that experience in her book to turn a mirror not only on the “high life” superiority assumptions Whites had about themselves, but also on blacks who exploited blacks.
Depending on your source, Eliza Potter was born of mixed-race parentage in 1820, either in NYC or Virginia. Little is known about her formative years. She married twice, the first time to Mr. Johnson and the second to Howard Potter in 1853, who died in 1860, a few months after her work, A Hairdresser’s Experience of High Life, was published in 1859.
Potter first made her living as a nanny/nurse and a domestic to families of the American “ton” in places like Newport R.I. and Saratoga N.Y. This enabled her to travel not only across the country but to Europe. In 1841, while in Paris, she learned to dress hair, which she did once she returned to the US and settled in Cincinnati. There, she pursued a full-time higher-paying career as a beauty expert and one knowledgeable about European standards of “ladylike” behavior.
Her memoir also falls into the category of travel narrative, popular in her day, because of the various places she visited but she didn’t just provide a travelogue. She commented on what she saw, particularly on slavery as she traveled the South. With her account of a black woman who owned slaves and was just as vicious as white slave owners, Potter shocked abolitionists who wanted to portray all blacks as victims.
The tone she employs in her book defies the deferential posture 19th century blacks and women in particular were supposed to adopt. Historian Henry Louis Gates in his chapter on her in The Portable Nineteenth Century African American Women Writers, describes her memoir not only as gossipy but sharp-tongued. In her introduction to A Hairdresser’s Experience Professor Xiomara Santamarina describes how deftly Potter’s critique comes off as advice on breeding rather than criticism.
When she died in 1893, she was reported to own $2400 in property, roughly seventy-two to seventy-five thousand dollars in today’s money. And lest I give you the impression she was self-serving, Potter regularly helped others. In Cincinnati, she served as a trustee of the Colored Orphan Asylum. While on a visit to Louisville, KY, Potter shared information on the Underground Railroad that helped a slave to freedom. For this act she was extradited, jailed and tried, but fortunately acquitted.
I’ll be forever grateful for the legacy left by 19th century African American women like Eliza Potter and for the efforts of those who selflessly share so I can learn about them.
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“Put It in a Book” by Michal Scott
Inside Stranded
Trapped in a book by a sorcerer for rejecting his sexual advances,
an ex-slave’s daughter discovers one hope of rescue – a nosy thief.
Excerpt:
“No one will ever read your story,” he whispered with snake-like malice. His laugh bruised her heart each time he congratulated himself on his ingenuity. “You will remain hidden in these pages until you give yourself to me.”
Never had been her answer when he’d propositioned her a week after she’d arrived in Liberia. Never was her answer when he’d caught her pleasuring herself by the river’s edge after her morning swim. Never remained her answer from the day she’d awakened entombed within the pages of her own story to this.
How often had hope flared at the possibility of someone opening these pages and setting her free?
Too often.
How many times had Morlu’s possessive grip caressed her prison’s spine, his wet thumb sliding down the edges of its pages?
Too many.
“Everyone I’ve imprisoned yielded within a day. You’ve resisted for thirty,” he exclaimed. “I must dedicate a chapter to your resilience.”
He splayed his fingers across her prison’s pages, too accurately mimicking the spreading of her thighs. Her captive limbs shuddered. His calloused finger slid along the book’s gutter. Her inert hands tensed, unable to shield herself from the erotic—albeit vicarious—chafing his touch provoked.
“Your opposition makes your eventual capitulation that much sweeter.” He slid his finger faster, deeper between the pages. “And make no mistake…you will surrender.”
Each time he placed her back on the shelf, he planted a cold kiss on the book’s spine. Aziza quivered against the chill, unable to staunch the revulsion roiling in her throat—or at least, where she imagined her throat might still be.
“Until then,” he whispered.
Her spirit cringed at those words. She’d escaped from plantation owners eager to punish her for secretly teaching slaves to read. Her spirit had remained unbowed after fourteen harrowing weeks crossing the Atlantic. Even the hardships that had killed more than three-quarters of all who had emigrated to Liberia hadn’t vanquished her. If neither threats to her life nor dangers at sea nor the high mortality rate could defeat her, she’d be damned if this self-serving sorcerer would.
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